Bab 14: Chapter 13
Jon jolted awake in his room at Winterfell, yanked out of a dream where he was back in the 21st century, scrolling through TikTok, and wondering why the Wi-Fi sucked so bad. Instead of his phone, though, he was greeted by a flurry of fur and two sets of wet noses. Midnight and Ghost were all over him like he was the last piece of bacon at a Stark family breakfast.
"Alright, alright, I'm up!" Jon muttered, his voice thick with sleep as he half-heartedly tried to fend them off. It was like trying to stop a tidal wave with a hand towel—pointless. Still, he couldn't help but chuckle as he gave in, scratching their heads. They wagged their tails like he was the Second Coming or, at the very least, a guy with treats in his pockets.
Then reality—or whatever the hell you call waking up in a medieval fantasy world—came crashing down on him like a particularly grumpy giant. Right. The serious chat with Ned, Catelyn, and Robb last night, where he basically went full-on "Chosen One" and told them about his visions and the upcoming zombie apocalypse. And today? Today was prep day.
Jon swung his legs off the bed and stretched, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles. He had a checklist that made your average high school homework load look like a cakewalk. First on the agenda: find a way to spar with Ser Barristan Selmy or Ser Jaime Lannister—or, better yet, both. Sure, why not start the day by getting your ass handed to you by the greatest swordsmen in Westeros? Seemed like a solid plan.
As he navigated the stone corridors of Winterfell, Jon mentally ran through his game plan, which mostly consisted of Don't die, don't die, don't die. He needed to get a grip on the Taskmaster's abilities, and if anyone could give him a run for his money, it was the Kingslayer and Barristan the Bold.
When he finally reached the training yard, Jon took a moment to soak in the sight. Knights were scattered around, drilling like they were getting paid extra for sweating. Ser Barristan was busy teaching some wide-eyed squires how not to die horribly in battle. Meanwhile, Ser Jaime was doing his own thing, looking like he belonged on the cover of some romance novel—The Kingslayer's Kiss, maybe? God, the fanfic practically wrote itself.
Jon grabbed two training swords and headed to a practice dummy. It was time to test out these new powers, which so far had mostly involved him tripping over his own feet or nearly taking out a serving girl with a rogue sword swing. Fun times.
He began a series of dual-wielding maneuvers, his body moving in ways that should have been impossible—or at least really painful—thanks to the Taskmaster's abilities. He was channeling warriors like Ser Arthur Dayne, and for once, it didn't feel like a bad cosplay attempt. His strikes and parries were on point, the kind of moves that should come with a "Do Not Try This At Home" disclaimer.
Ser Barristan stopped mid-lecture, his eyes narrowing as he watched Jon. Probably wondering who let this Stark bastard—ahem, Targaryen, thank you very much—borrow the cheat codes. Ser Jaime, too, looked up from his drills, raising an eyebrow in that annoyingly perfect way that only the Kingslayer could manage.
Jon kept up his practice, feeling the weight of their scrutiny. But instead of letting it freak him out, he used it. He pushed harder, determined to show these medieval badasses that he wasn't just some kid who had accidentally stumbled into their world and knew way too many spoilers. Nope, he was Jon freakin' Snow—or, well, kind of—and he was ready to kick some medieval ass.
I hope the Old Gods are watching this, he thought, grinning to himself as the dummy took another brutal hit. Cause I'm about to go full Deadpool on this place.
—
Jon was in the zone, absolutely nailing his training routine, when he noticed something that could only be described as a "WTF?" moment. Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Barristan Selmy were watching him like he was the final boss in a video game they'd been stuck on for weeks. His wooden swords swung with a rhythm that felt less like Jon Snow's and more like a mash-up of every legendary knight he could think of—Arthur Dayne, maybe even a bit of Brienne of Tarth, if he was being honest.
As Jon continued his swings, he caught a glimpse of Ser Barristan leaning in close to Jaime. "His style," Barristan murmured, sounding like he'd just stumbled onto a conspiracy theory Reddit thread. "It's strangely reminiscent of Ser Arthur Dayne."
Jaime, clearly intrigued, gave a nod, eyes still locked on Jon. "It is. That's Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard. But with those moves, it makes you wonder…"
Jon's ears perked up. Oh boy, here it comes. Let's play 'What's My Mother's Name?' He bet himself a metaphorical twenty bucks that they'd mention Ashara Dayne. Go on, guys, make my day.
Barristan raised an eyebrow, waiting for Jaime to continue like he was tuning in for the next episode of a particularly juicy drama series. "I've heard rumors about his mother," Jaime said, almost like he was trying out for the role of Westeros' top gossip. "Some say she could be Ashara Dayne, Ser Arthur's sister. If that's true, it might explain his impressive skill with a blade."
Jon had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Ashara Dayne? Sure, why not? Hell, let's toss in Lyanna Stark for good measure. It's not like this parentage thing could get any more confusing.
Barristan nodded thoughtfully, clearly pondering the day's new conspiracy theory. "It's possible. Ned Stark has always kept his secrets close. If Ashara Dayne was Jon's mother, it would certainly explain his talent."
Jon finished up his practice with a final, theatrical spin that probably looked cooler than it felt. He turned to face the two knights, trying to act all casual, like he hadn't just overheard them speculating about his fictional parentage. Cool as a cucumber, Jon. Or, y'know, as cool as a Stark bastard who's really a 16-year-old from the 21st century can be.
"Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime," Jon greeted, offering a nod that was more Jon Snow than modern-day teenager. "I was hoping to spar with one or both of you. I leave for Essos tomorrow, and I could use a good challenge to sharpen my skills."
Ser Barristan's eyes lit up with a mix of curiosity and admiration. "You've got impressive skill, Jon Snow. It would be an honor to spar with you."
Jaime's smirk morphed into a full-on grin. "I'm intrigued. Let's see what you've got, Snow."
Jon felt a surge of excitement that was half adrenaline, half Holy shit, I'm about to spar with Jaime Lannister and Barristan the Bold. This was the moment he'd been waiting for—not just to test his Taskmaster-gifted abilities, but to see if he could actually hang with the best of Westeros. If he could hold his own against these two legends, maybe—just maybe—he really could save this messed-up world. Or, at the very least, avoid getting skewered before he got the chance.
—
Jon took a deep breath, gripping the training swords like they were the last lifelines in a boss fight. Alright, just remember, this isn't a video game, he told himself. But if it were, I'd be totally crushing this level. Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime stood across from him, looking way too calm for what was about to go down. The entire training yard had gone silent, the tension so thick you could probably slice through it with a Valyrian steel blade—or a really sharp curse word.
"Okay, Jon, time to channel your inner badass," he thought, diving into the duel with the enthusiasm of someone who'd spent way too many hours watching YouTube sword-fighting tutorials. Thanks to Taskmaster's nifty powers, Jon was basically running on cheat codes, instantly breaking down Jaime's fighting style like he was decoding a game's attack pattern. Every swing, every parry—it was like his brain had hitched a ride on Ser Arthur Dayne's greatest hits album, and he was totally jamming out.
Jaime's blade clanged against Jon's, the impact sending vibrations up his arms that felt like a low-level earthquake. Each time their swords connected, Jon's mind raced, cataloging every move like he was saving it to his mental hard drive. This wasn't just a spar—it was a live-action strategy session. Jon wasn't here just to survive; he was here to level up.
And then Ser Barristan decided to join the fun. Now Jon was dodging and parrying between two of Westeros' top-tier knights, feeling like he was trapped in the world's most intense game of Whack-a-Mole. But instead of getting whacked, Jon was pulling off moves that even surprised him, handling the situation with a finesse that could only come from someone who'd watched way too many fight scenes.
The crowd around the yard was growing, their whispers of admiration like a low buzz that only fueled Jon's adrenaline. His siblings—Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon—somehow elbowed their way to the front, their faces lit up with a mix of excitement and something Jon could only describe as "holy crap, our brother's a total badass." Their cheers? Yeah, that was like an energy boost straight out of a fantasy novel.
Ned and Catelyn Stark showed up, looking like they'd walked into an episode of Westeros' Got Talent. Ned's eyes were locked on Jon, his expression a blend of pride and "I'm not sure if I should be impressed or terrified." Catelyn, though, had that classic mom face going on—equal parts worry and "please don't die in front of the whole castle."
Then, like the universe wasn't already making things dramatic enough, King Robert Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister decided to join the party. Robert looked more curious than anything, but it was Joffrey who really caught Jon's attention. The little psycho was grinning like he'd just found a new toy to break, which, given his track record, wasn't exactly reassuring. Myrcella and Tommen, though? They looked like they'd rather be anywhere else, which honestly, Jon couldn't blame them for.
With Taskmaster's abilities still humming in his brain, Jon kept adapting to Ser Barristan's and Ser Jaime's techniques, tweaking his style like he was fine-tuning a custom character build. Every clash was a new opportunity to learn, to grow stronger, to, well, not die horribly. It was like he was crafting the ultimate fighting game character, but instead of a controller, he had two legendary knights pushing him to his limits.
After a particularly intense flurry of blows, the three of them paused to catch their breath. Jon could feel the sweat dripping down his back, but there was no way he was going to show how tired he actually was. Not in front of these guys. Not in front of that smug little weasel Joffrey.
Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime exchanged a look, the kind of look that told Jon he'd just done something right.
"You fight with exceptional skill, Jon Snow," Ser Barristan said, his tone laced with genuine admiration that made Jon feel like he'd just unlocked a new achievement. "Your technique is reminiscent of Ser Arthur Dayne himself."
Jaime gave a rare smile—yeah, the Kingslayer actually smiled—and nodded. "Indeed. You've earned our respect today. This was a spar to remember."
Jon nodded back, trying to keep his face stoic and totally not like he was about to fist-pump the air. The crowd erupted in applause, the cheers louder than the voice in his head that was currently screaming, Hell yeah, I didn't die! He glanced at his family, catching their proud smiles, even Arya's mischievous little grin. But of course, Joffrey's smirk was still there, a reminder that the political crapstorm was far from over.
But for now? Jon was going to bask in this victory. Every challenge made him stronger, every fight honed his skills, and every step brought him closer to becoming the hero Westeros needed. Or, at the very least, the hero who wouldn't get stabbed in the back during the next major plot twist.
—
King Robert Baratheon stomped forward like a bear that had just spotted a fresh kill. The crowd's cheers and whispers died down faster than a YouTube video with buffering issues. His voice, which could probably knock down a small castle wall, rang out loud and clear.
"Gods be good!" Robert bellowed, his grin spreading across his face like he'd just found the last turkey leg at a feast. "Jon Snow, you've got the makings of a true warrior! I haven't seen such skill and bravery in someone so young in ages."
Jon, who was really a 16-year-old from the modern world stuck in Jon Snow's body, gave a bow that he hoped looked respectful and not like he was just trying to avoid vomiting on Robert's boots. Inside, though? It was like a blender of emotions set to high speed—excitement, dread, and a healthy dose of What the actual f— were swirling around in there. "Thank you, Your Grace," Jon said, trying to keep his voice from cracking like it always did during math presentations. "It's an honor to hear such words from you."
Robert let out a laugh that could probably scare the birds out of the trees at Winterfell and gave Jon a clap on the shoulder that felt more like getting hit by a wrecking ball. Ah, yes, internal bleeding, my old friend. "You've earned it, lad. Keep up the training, and who knows? You might just outshine Ser Arthur Dayne one day." He gave a nod toward Ned Stark, looking like he'd just come up with the best idea since sliced bread. "And with skills like yours, there might even be a spot for you in the Kingsguard when you're older."
Awesome. A spot on the team that gets massacred by my own brother-slash-cousin in a few seasons. Can't wait, Jon thought, faking a smile that he hoped looked more 'grateful warrior' and less 'kid forced to say thank you for socks at Christmas.' Knowing the spoilers, standing there and pretending to admire Robert—the dude who offed his biological dad, Rhaegar Targaryen—was like sitting through a bad movie sequel. You already knew how it was going to end, and it wasn't pretty.
Meanwhile, Joffrey was off to the side, looking like someone had just peed in his cereal. His fists were clenched so tight, Jon half-expected him to start snapping twigs or something. Seeing his dad, the king, shower praise on Jon, a bastard, was clearly not doing wonders for Joffrey's already massive inferiority complex.
As the applause from the crowd began to fade, Robert turned to the gathered knights and spectators, puffing up his chest like he was about to deliver a TED Talk. "Let this be a lesson to all of you," he declared, his voice booming with that kingly authority that made everyone shut up and listen. "Skill and courage can come from anywhere—even from the Bastard of Winterfell. Let no man forget that."
Oh, yeah, that's gonna go over real well with your darling son, Jon thought, sneaking a glance at Joffrey, whose face was now a mix of red and furious. Good job, Your Grace. Pissing off the future psychopath is always a solid move.
Joffrey, looking like he was about to explode, stepped forward, his voice dripping with bitterness that you could practically taste in the air. "Father, if I had known there was to be a match, I would have prepared to show my own skills."
Robert didn't even bother to give Joffrey a full glance, just waved him off like he was a buzzing gnat. "Another time, Joffrey. Today is Jon's moment." With a final nod that was clearly meant to be approving, but mostly just reminded Jon how much bigger Robert's neck was compared to his own, the king turned back to his family.
Right. Today is Jon's moment. Jon kept up the respectful facade, even though inside he was really just thinking about how messed up this whole situation was. It was like living in an episode of a show you knew all the spoilers for, but you still had to act surprised. And, you know, not get killed. As Robert moved away, Jon caught Joffrey's glare—a glare so filled with envy and hatred that it might as well have come with a warning label. Great, just great. Like I didn't have enough problems already.
Jon knew the political and personal battles ahead were going to be more complicated than a YouTube algorithm. But hey, at least he wasn't dead. Yet.
—-
Arya and Bran bounded over like a couple of over-caffeinated squirrels, their faces lit up with sheer joy. Robb trailed behind them, wearing a smile that could have lit up Winterfell's darkest corners.
"Jon, that was incredible!" Arya's eyes sparkled like she'd just won the lottery. "You were like some legendary hero out there!"
Bran nodded so hard his head might fall off. "Yeah! You fought just like Ser Arthur Dayne," he added, sounding like he'd just seen a unicorn.
Jon felt a warm rush at their praise, even though his brain was still doing somersaults trying to process being in Jon Snow's body. But hey, a little genuine admiration was always nice. "Thanks, Arya, Bran," he said, giving Bran a friendly ruffle that was a mix of affection and trying not to look too awkward. "Glad you enjoyed the show."
Robb finally caught up, giving Jon a hearty clap on the back that was probably strong enough to bruise. His grin was all pride and warmth. "You did us proud, Jon," he said, looking like he was about to burst with joy. "Father would have been impressed."
The mention of Ned Stark nearly made Jon's smile falter. It was like being reminded of a plot twist you knew was coming but still hurt to hear. Ah, emotional whiplash—my old friend. "Thanks, Robb," he managed, keeping his voice steady. "I'll keep training and try to get even better."
Arya nudged him with a playful shove. "Can you teach me some of those moves?" she asked, her eyes practically vibrating with excitement.
Bran jumped in, his curiosity almost radiating from him. "And me too! Can you show us?"
Jon's heart sank like a stone in a well. He had hoped to keep his secret mission on the down low. "Sorry, but I won't be able to teach you right now," he said, giving Arya's hair a friendly ruffle, trying to sound more casual than he felt. "I'm heading to Essos tomorrow and will be away for a while."
Arya's face fell like a soufflé out of the oven, and Bran's concern was palpable. Great, now I'm the bearer of bad news and a potential hero. Super.
"But don't worry," Jon said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible while feeling like he was lying through his teeth. "When I come back, I promise I'll teach you everything I've learned. We'll spar together just like old times."
Arya's disappointment transformed into determination faster than you could say "plot twist." "Okay, Jon," she said with a resolute nod. "We'll hold you to that."
Bran smiled softly, his eyes full of understanding. "We'll be waiting for you to come back," he said.
Jon felt a swell of gratitude that nearly knocked him over. Despite the whirlwind of political games and personal drama awaiting him, these small moments of normalcy were like a breath of fresh air. For now, he was thankful for the simple joy of his siblings' support in the middle of all this chaos.
—
As Jon was chatting with Arya and Bran, Ghost and Midnight came barreling towards him like two over-caffeinated freight trains. Before Jon could brace himself, they tackled him to the ground with the kind of enthusiasm you'd expect from a toddler with a sugar rush. Their tails wagged so vigorously they seemed ready to take off into the sky.
Arya and Bran exchanged amused glances, though curiosity was clearly flickering in their eyes. They were used to Ghost, of course—he was practically family. But Midnight? That was a new addition to their menagerie.
"What's that?" Arya asked, narrowing her eyes at the sleek black cat that was now batting at Jon's hair like it was the world's most fascinating new toy. Her tone mixed curiosity with a hint of confusion.
Bran's eyes were as wide as saucers, taking in Midnight's smooth, dark fur and those eerie green eyes. "I've never seen an animal like that before," he said, sounding like he'd just discovered dragons were real.
Jon couldn't help but laugh as he pushed Ghost's massive head off his chest and gave Midnight a gentle pat. "This is Midnight," he explained, trying to keep his voice casual. "He's a friend, just like Ghost."
Arya and Bran exchanged intrigued glances, clearly fascinated by the new arrival. As Midnight nuzzled up to Jon, Arya reached out to pet him, her fingers brushing through the shadowcat's soft fur with awe.
"He's beautiful," Arya said softly, as if she were talking about a rare gem.
Bran nodded, his face lighting up with a smile. "Yeah, he is," he agreed, his curiosity turning into pure admiration.
Jon watched his siblings interact with Midnight and couldn't help but make comparisons. Midnight, despite being younger, was already the size of the other direwolves. Ghost, on the other hand, was more like a small pony—twice the size of his littermates. It was like watching a nature documentary unfold, except instead of David Attenborough narrating, it was all happening live and Jon was clueless about the script.
Sure, Jon knew the basic plot of "Game of Thrones," but Midnight wasn't in the script, nor was this whole transmigration gig. He was starting to realize that the show didn't exactly cover all the weird magical stuff this world had to offer.
As he mentally wrestled with these thoughts, he reached out to Hestia, the mysterious voice of his Gacha System. Seriously, it was like having customer service for the gods—minus the annoying hold music.
"Hestia," Jon began, directing his thoughts inward, "what's up with the size difference between Ghost and Midnight? They were born around the same time as the other direwolves, but they're both huge."
There was a brief pause—Jon imagined Hestia flipping through some cosmic instruction manual—before her voice echoed in his mind, cool as ever.
"Creatures that form Warg Bonds with you at an early age experience accelerated growth," she explained. "This accelerated development is due to the deep connection you share with your companions. Ghost's bond with you from birth has triggered this process, resulting in his larger size and greater strength."
Jon nodded to himself, piecing it all together. So that's why Ghost was growing faster than a Marvel movie franchise. The thought of his bond with Ghost—and now Midnight—being that powerful made Jon's heart swell a bit. It wasn't all just swords and dragons; there was some real, deep stuff going on here.
With a renewed sense of purpose, Jon resolved to protect and nurture these two companions. If there was one thing he'd learned from binge-watching "Game of Thrones," it was that the road ahead was going to be a wild ride. And with Ghost and Midnight by his side, he might just stand a chance of surviving it.
—
In the dim light of Winterfell's chambers, Joffrey's voice pierced the air with the precision of a shattered glass. He was having a full-blown tantrum, pacing around like a kid who'd just discovered his favorite ice cream had been stolen. His boots were making an annoying scuffing sound against the stone floor, and a goblet of wine he'd knocked over dripped onto the table like a bad omen. Queen Cersei watched him with a mix of concern and detached amusement, her calm demeanor in stark contrast to Joffrey's melodrama.
From the vantage point of an eagle perched on the battlements, Jon Snow—the 16-year-old from the modern world now stuck in Jon Snow's body—observed the scene with a mix of irritation and incredulity. Jon knew Joffrey was a royal pain from binge-watching the show, but seeing him in the flesh (or feathers, in this case) was something else entirely.
"This is outrageous!" Joffrey screeched, his voice high and whiny. "Why does everything always go wrong for me? I'm the Crown Prince! Everyone should bow to me!"
Jon, seeing this through the eagle's eyes, couldn't help but roll his mental eyes. Joffrey was exactly as insufferable as expected—throwing a tantrum that made you question whether he was actually the product of inbreeding or just really bad parenting. Cersei, ever the enabler, was there to soothe his ego with the patience of a saint (or a very talented actress).
"Joffrey, darling, you mustn't let these things upset you so," Cersei said, her voice like velvet with a hidden blade. "A prince must be strong, not ruled by his temper."
Joffrey threw his hands up in frustration. "But it's not fair!" he yelled, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "I'm the one who should get everything I want, not these Starks! They're nothing!"
Cersei sighed, though it seemed more like a performance than genuine sympathy. "Life is rarely fair, my sweet boy," she said, her tone dripping with insincere comfort. "But you're a lion, and a lion doesn't whine about fairness. A lion takes what he wants."
Jon snorted inwardly at Cersei's grandiose metaphor. A lion? he thought. Joffrey was more like a spoiled kitten—all fluff and fury with no real substance unless someone else did the heavy lifting. The real danger wasn't Joffrey's childish outbursts but Cersei's relentless reinforcement of his worst traits.
Joffrey collapsed into a chair, his earlier fury draining away into a sullen pout. Cersei, ever the doting mother, placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in with the kind of closeness that whispered of dark conspiracies.
"Calm yourself, Joffrey," she cooed, her voice dripping with poison-laced honey. "That bastard Jon Snow is leaving Winterfell for Essos tomorrow. He'll probably join some pathetic sellsword band or wander around like the worthless mutt he is. Soon, he'll be nothing more than a forgotten stain on this world."
Jon stiffened at the mention of his own name. It was hard not to react when someone was essentially writing his obituary, but he reminded himself that this was all part of the plan. Essos was indeed his next destination, but he had no intention of disappearing quietly. If anything, Essos was where he would start rewriting the story.
From the eagle's perspective, he saw Joffrey's mood shift from sulking to sadistic glee. The kid's eyes lit up with a cruel satisfaction that made Jon's stomach churn. "Really, Mother?" Joffrey asked, still petulant but now visibly relishing the thought of Jon's downfall.
Cersei nodded with a fierce look of determination. "Yes, my dear. You are the true heir to the Iron Throne. You will rule over all. Nothing and no one will stand in your way." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, dry your tears and hold your head high. Remember, a lion does not concern itself with the bleating of sheep."
Joffrey's smile twisted into something truly sinister, and Jon felt a shiver of disgust. Seeing this kid on screen was one thing, but dealing with him in person was another. But Jon wasn't really Jon Snow, and he wasn't about to let Cersei or Joffrey's schemes go unchallenged.
With one last glance at the scene, Jon pulled his consciousness back from the eagle. His mind was already racing with plans and counter-plans. The game was just beginning, and this time, Jon wasn't going to play by their rules.
—
As the eagle swooped down and landed with impeccable grace on Jon's shoulder, he couldn't help but appreciate the bird's majestic demeanor. Who would have thought that a 16-year-old from the modern world, suddenly in the body of Jon Snow from Game of Thrones, would get so accustomed to such weirdness? Bonding with magical creatures, unlocking abilities straight out of a fantasy RPG, and trying to stay alive in a medieval soap opera—just another Tuesday in the life of our modern-day transmigrator.
"Alright, feathered friend," Jon murmured, reaching up to stroke the eagle's feathers. "Let's see what kind of powers you've got for me."
He tapped into his status screen with a mental nudge, the familiar blue window flashing into view. His eyes skimmed through the usual stats until he hit the jackpot: his new abilities.
Jon nearly whistled. Eagle Vision let him see through the bird's eyes—like having a built-in drone. Aerial Strike boosted his speed and strength when attacking from above. He could already imagine swooping down to deliver a mighty thwack to some unsuspecting foe. Wind's Whisper was a comms upgrade, letting him relay messages over vast distances without anyone overhearing. Perfect for avoiding awkward run-ins or planning his next move.
The real kicker was Skyborne Sentinel. Aquila, as he'd named the eagle (because it sounded cool and heroic), could detect threats from miles away and alert Jon instantly. That was essentially having a personal alarm system with feathers. And Bonded Perception was like syncing his senses with Aquila's, making them a killer duo whether grounded or airborne.
"Not too shabby," Jon thought, feeling a surge of confidence. These powers meant he wasn't just some clueless kid stuck in a medieval drama. With Aquila as his sidekick, he was ready to take on Westeros, Essos, and whatever else the world threw at him. Aquila, perched on his shoulder, gave a soft, approving cry as if to say, "We've got this."
Jon grinned, patting the eagle affectionately. With Aquila by his side, he felt more prepared than ever. He wasn't just Jon Snow anymore—he was a 16-year-old modern-day kid, armed with the knowledge of Game of Thrones, a magical Gacha System, and a badass eagle named Aquila. The game was on, and Jon was more than ready to play it his way.
—
Jon sat beneath the heart tree in Winterfell's Godswood, feeling like he'd been thrown headfirst into a bizarre medieval fantasy—and he had. This wasn't his world; it was the world of Game of Thrones, a show he'd binge-watched to the point of memorizing every plot twist and character arc. Now, he was stuck in the body of Jon Snow, trying to navigate a story he already knew too well.
Today was supposed to be the day Bran's little stunt at the Broken Tower turned into a tragic domino effect of chaos and tragedy. But Jon wasn't about to let that happen. He liked his family in one piece, thank you very much.
The plan was straightforward: distract Bran and Arya all day. No climbing, no falling. But for that to work, he needed to know what Jaime and Cersei were up to. So, he warged into his pet eagle, Aquila. The bird perched high on a window ledge in the Great Hall, eyes sharp as it observed the Lannisters.
Through Aquila's eyes, Jon watched Jaime sauntering over to where Tyrion was nursing what looked like the hangover of the century. Classic Tyrion—always indulging in the best and worst of life.
"Ah, Tyrion," Jaime said, all smirks and golden armor, "Seems like the wine's had the better of you again."
Tyrion's laugh sounded like a wounded animal. "Jaime, sometimes it's the only thing that keeps me sane in this hellhole."
Jon couldn't blame him. Given that he was in the middle of a grimdark soap opera where the threat of death was a daily concern, a drink didn't sound too bad. But, he needed to focus. He wasn't here to sip wine; he was here to prevent Bran from becoming a Stark-shaped stain on the ground.
"Jaime," Tyrion said, leaning in conspiratorially, "I've heard whispers about you and Ser Barristan sparring with a boy of sixteen namedays. They're calling him the second coming of Ser Arthur Dayne. Any truth to that?"
Jon sighed inwardly. Of course they were talking about me. Couldn't they focus on something less, well, disastrous? Like, I don't know, not pushing kids out of windows?
"Really, Tyrion?" Jaime said, sounding almost amused. "Yes, Ser Barristan and I did spar with him. He's certainly skilled, but let's not get carried away with comparisons to Ser Arthur Dayne."
Well, at least "skilled" wasn't "useless liability," which was probably how most of Westeros saw him.
"He's got potential," Jaime continued, his tone turning serious. "There's something about him, a fire in his eyes. Reminds me of someone I once knew, but that's a story for another time."
Great, thanks for the tease, Jaime. But Tyrion wasn't about to let this go.
"Oh, come on, Jaime," Tyrion prodded. "You can't drop that and walk away. What's the story?"
Jaime shrugged nonchalantly. "Just someone from my past. Not important."
Typical Lannister, all broody and mysterious. Jon wanted to shout, Can't you just skip the cryptic backstory and focus on the fact that I'm trying to save my half-brother/cousin from becoming a pancake?
Tyrion, sensing the shift in mood, changed the subject. "So, any grand plans for today, dear brother?"
Jaime's tone lightened. "Oh, just the usual knightly duties and perhaps some training in the yard. Nothing too thrilling."
Jon exhaled in relief. At least Jaime wasn't plotting any impromptu child-throwing today. He pulled back from Aquila's senses and snapped back to his own body. Time to execute Operation: Keep Bran Away from the Tower.
Brushing snow off his cloak, he headed towards the courtyard. Today was about distraction—archery contests, explorations, maybe a bit of swordplay. Anything to keep Bran occupied and far from that cursed tower.
As he walked, Jon marveled at the absurdity of his life. He'd gone from worrying about school and video games to outmaneuvering medieval power players and rewriting one of the most iconic plots ever. No pressure, right?
But he wasn't just Jon Snow anymore. He was a guy with spoilers and a plan, and he wasn't about to let a twisted medieval soap opera mess with his family. Today, Bran wasn't going anywhere near that tower. Not if Jon had anything to say about it.
—
Jon spent the day with Arya and Bran, keeping them far from the dark clouds of impending doom that loomed over them. They roamed the woods around Winterfell, played games, and shared stories. Jon tried his best to play the carefree older brother, but inside, he was anything but relaxed. He knew all too well how this day was supposed to end—Bran taking a nosedive off the Broken Tower—and he was determined to rewrite that script.
As the sun began its descent, casting long, ominous shadows across the land, Jon's focus was sharper than Valyrian steel. His eyes were constantly darting around, scanning for any signs of trouble. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease that clung to him like a bad joke.
Meanwhile, Jon was keeping tabs on Jaime and Cersei Lannister through Aquila, his eagle companion. From high above, Aquila's sharp eyes provided Jon with a bird's-eye view of Winterfell's activities. Unfortunately, this also included some deeply uncomfortable and, let's just say, uncomfortably explicit moments between Jaime and Cersei. Jon did his best to avoid the mental images that accompanied this voyeuristic perspective and stayed focused on the mission: preventing Jaime from making an untimely appearance that could lead to Bran's fateful climb.
"Seriously?" Jon thought, rolling his mental eyes. "Not only am I trying to keep Bran from falling to his death, but I also get a front-row seat to this soap opera of royal incest. Can't wait to explain this at my next therapy session."
Despite the cringe-worthy distractions, Jon pressed on. The plan was simple: keep Bran and Arya occupied and away from any risky business. As they finally made their way back to the castle gates, safely from their day of adventure, Jon felt a mix of relief and triumph.
He allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. For now, they were safe, and he had managed to sidestep any major disasters. The absurdity of his situation—a modern-day teenager, obsessed with Game of Thrones, now living it out with full knowledge of the plot—wasn't lost on him. But for today, he had successfully played the role of the protective older brother while navigating the drama of Winterfell.
"Another day in the life of Jon Snow," he said to himself with a wry smile, ushering Arya and Bran inside. If only real life had a 'skip scene' button.
—
Jon strolled into Robb's room, where his brother was hunched over a map of the North like he was trying to decode a secret message from the universe. The flickering candlelight made Robb look like he was brooding about the fate of kingdoms or just really into his new desk lamp.
"Hey, Robb," Jon said, flopping into a chair with all the grace of a teenager who'd just been handed a surprise quiz. "Got a sec?"
Robb looked up, a grin spreading across his face like he'd just scored a major victory. "Hey, Jon. What's up?"
Jon leaned in, his expression going from "chill bro" to "serious strategist" mode. "So, I've been thinking. With Father heading to King's Landing and me about to take a little trip to Essos, we need a game plan. I mean, we can't just wing it, right?"
Robb's face shifted to "deep in thought" mode. "Yeah, things are definitely going to be different."
"Exactly," Jon said, feeling like he was about to drop some wisdom bombs. "We should focus on strengthening our alliances and making sure we're set here in the North. We need to be ready for whatever's coming down the pipeline."
Robb studied the map with the kind of concentration usually reserved for trying to find hidden treasure. "That makes sense. But alliances don't just happen. We need a strategy."
Jon nodded, feeling like he was on a roll. "Right. We should start reaching out to other Northern houses, building those connections. But there's more we can do."
Robb looked interested, like Jon had just mentioned a secret level in their favorite video game. "What do you have in mind?"
Jon took a breath, pulling from his extensive knowledge of the show and books. "Well, how about a strategic marriage for you? Margaery Tyrell from the Reach could be a solid match. She's got political smarts and charm—perfect for our needs. Or there's Arianne Martell from Dorne. She's tough and clever, and a marriage with Dorne could be a game-changer for us."
Robb's eyebrows shot up. "Margaery Tyrell? I've heard good things about her. And Arianne Martell? She's pretty impressive."
"Exactly," Jon said, feeling pretty proud of himself. "A strategic marriage could seriously boost our position. We need to think about it."
Robb's face softened into a thoughtful smile. "You've got a point. I'll give it serious consideration."
Jon nodded, feeling like he'd just aced a major test. "We'll do whatever it takes to protect our family and keep our home safe."
Robb's smile widened, and his eyes gleamed with determination. "Together, as always."
Jon felt a rush of purpose. Navigating this political labyrinth wasn't just about changing the plot he knew; it was about making sure his family thrived in this crazy new reality. As he left Robb's room, he was fired up and ready to tackle whatever came next. This wasn't just playing a role—it was about rewriting the script of his epic new life.
---
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